Ten Leagues to Oxford
by Eilean Donan
Summary: Francis Langton had lost it all - family, position, wealth. And he'd lost it to his late mother's husband and his two obnoxious sons. But he sees hope when a lady rides in to his life - if only he hadn't insulted her best friend...
1. Chapter 1

Silence blanketed the little churchyard, a kind of peace so still and soft that it seemed the place had been lost in time, far away from the world. Frost hung in the air, and the silver disc of the moon cast its glow over pristine snow and the deep evergreen of the yews. Only one thing marred the perfect beauty of the snow's smooth cover – a set of footprints that led, unerring on their way, to a graveside under the eaves of the old church. The warm golden flicker of a lantern marked where that grave was, and over it stood a boy with his head bowed under his hood. He'd set the lantern by his feet, lighting up the brief but poignantly simple words chiselled into the headstone, words worn with the promise of moss even now, though he kept the headstone clean when time allowed. He read those words over and over. _Here lies Sir William Langton…here lies Sir William Langton…._

Francis Langton knelt by the grave and began shovelling the snow, several inches deep, from the mound. It soaked through the woollen mittens he wore and froze his fingers, but he didn't care. For the last two years he'd always come here to lay a Christmas wreath at his father's grave, and this year would be no different, though everything else about his life was about to change. Not that he hadn't known it would, one day. Everything did. At fifteen, he already knew more about the fortunes and misfortunes of men than he cared to.

He sat back on his haunches, cold earth beneath him, and beneath that, the bones of his father. It had been two years, and Francis had allowed himself to be lulled into a false sense of security as life with his mother had carried on as normal, though with tightened belts and purse strings. But the money Sir William Langton had left was nearly gone, and Mary Langton was about to be married again.

Francis shook his head sadly. His mother had refused several suitors the king had put forward, for she'd loved William and knew there could be no other man for her, but his money would not last forever and she'd had to give in. The latest man the king had proposed for her was a rich merchant-seaman, a frequent sailor on the trading route between England and France, and often further a-field too. Sometimes as far as India. To Francis, that was something that inspired his imagination, but despite several attempts, he'd never been able to get Henry Vaughan to tell him any tales of adventure. The man was bluff, red-faced from the sea-winds, with thick grey hair and arms like tree-trunks, and his laughter could fill the entire house. He laughed a lot, too, but where Francis was concerned, he was less jolly. His two sons, too, were thick-set and flame-haired, and Francis knew he was the outsider now. Quiet and dark, tall and slender as a willow wand, he didn't fit into this new family of big sandy-haired men. And with Mary married to the king's own silk-and-spice merchant, Francis knew they'd be at court again, and the thought frightened him. His mother had rarely visited court since William's death, and that suited Francis' natural reticence and love of the quiet life no end. Here in Langton the days meandered by with a sense of peace and contentment, unhurried and undisturbed. Little changed; life at the manor was quiet and unpretentious. Francis loved it, a part of the walls and the earth and the trees, a young man unaware of status or position except where it existed in the minds of men he didn't like.

But all that was about to change.

The lantern flickered out. Francis sniffed, wiped his nose on his mitten, and rose. Tomorrow was Christmas Day, and the last day he'd have his mother to himself, for the day after, she would marry Henry Vaughan.

* * *

><p>Within a year, Mary Langton joined her husband in the graveyard, and two weeks later her new baby was buried with its mother. Henry Vaughan shrugged off both of them; the baby had been a girl and a sickly one, and he had never thought much of Mary Langton's health. Although he'd hoped vaguely for another boy, he already had two fine, strapping sons. Francis, however, felt the loss as the worst blow of his life.<p>

For a time, in the first days of his mother's marriage, he'd struggled to accept his stepfather and his two uncouth sons, but then the men had been away for much of the summer, and Francis and Mary had settled back into their old routines. A quiet life, that was what they had; a summer full of sun and freedom. Francis had begun to take a man's interest in Langton Manor, and was frequently to be found in the byres and haybarns, and on several occasions, even the dairy, though Mary soon found out and had a quiet word with the dairymaids not to encourage his presence there. He'd tried to sneak back in, for he loved their chatter and songs, but they'd shoo'd him out on the end of a broom, their eyes full of laughter.

But now all that had gone. The Autumn blew in cold and harsh after a long summer, and Mary died, and Francis' safe world fell apart. He stood now, staring at the new flagstones on the floor, bought by William Langton two months before his death. They were fine Staffordshire slate, polished smooth and shining, and hidden by neither carpet nor rush matting, so proud had Mary been of them.

Henry Vaughan looked him up and down, and then down and up, one bushy grey eyebrow raised and his mouth turned down in disapproval.

'You're as slender as a girl,' he said scathingly 'That's what comes of coddling boys, and I told your poor dead mother that. God rest her soul.'

Francis crossed himself dutifully, and said nothing.

Henry looked at the ceiling. 'Some things are going to have to change around here,' he continued. 'I've been through the accounts, and they are in a worse state than I'd thought. We can no longer afford to keep your servants; I have already dismissed most of them. You, Francis will take their place. If nothing else, a little hard work will toughen you up to be a man, and in any case you are the only suitable candidate. Robert will be with me for much of the time, and Hugh is a _knight_.' He looked directly at Francis, his blue eyes hard and cold. 'It's time you earned your bread, boy. You've been kept in undeserving luxury for far too long.'

From his chair by the fire, Hugh tittered. Only recently knighted, he wore his spurs as often as he could, and he sat with his legs stretched out to show them off. He angled Francis a look through sea-grey eyes as hard as his father's.

'Fancy being my personal squire?'

'No,' said Francis. 'I'm sure you'd be ashamed of me, the girlish son of a dead knight.' He sighed and looked at the floor again, wishing he liked Hugh enough to accept his offer, for it had been genuine.

Henry gave a sudden jovial laugh. 'No need to look so glum,'; he said, and clapped Francis on the shoulder with a force that made Francis wince. 'You're still a part of this family, but every member has his place…'

'….and mine is in the servants' loft, with the rats?' Francis snapped.

'….I've taken the liberty of ordering you livery in my colours,' Henry finished, ignoring him. Francis gaped. Livery? Servants wore livery! To take on the tasks of a servant was one thing, and he saw the necessity for it, but to be treated like one - to _dress_ like one! He would not stand for it.

'With respect, sir...' he began, but Henry cut him short.

'You're a Vaughan now,' he said, still with the jovial smile on his lips, though it didn't touch his eyes. 'And Vaughan colours aren't to be scorned, boy. You'll be running errands to the town – you need to be seen to be a part of this family.'

As if he would be. Hugh shifted, his cotehardie sleeves falling back to reveal his long knife on his belt.

'Of course, if you think you're too good to work…' Hugh sneered. Francis curled his own lip in response.

'Never mind that,' said Henry, before a fight could ensue. 'Besides, I thought you'd like the opportunity to get to know the Manor – your home – and its workings better. You've spent enough of the last year up to your knees in cow muck and haystacks. You can continue.'

And Francis continued. To his surprise, it wasn't so bad, despite the livery, which was deep blue and gold, particoloured, and tailored to fit him perfectly. He even grudgingly had to admit it suited his dark colouring, and the blue was a particularly lovely one. Henry Vaughan was right, Francis did enjoy being a part of the Manor's workings; he learned the tasks of the dairy and the stables, the byres and sties, and the fields and ponds, and also of the household. Christmas came, and Henry Vaughan took Robert and Hugh and went to court, leaving Francis behind at Langton Manor. He slaughtered a goose, and soaked the salted pig in cider, and gave several shillings to some travelling minstrels to play him carols, and two pennies to a peddler for silk ribbons which he gave to one of the dairymaids. He left the livery off and wore scarlet, and played Lord of the manor to his heart's content.

But when Henry and his sons rode back in, Francis found himself stripped of all responsibility, and a broom thrust into his hand.

'I turn my back for half a day and you're lauding it over all!' Henry snarled. 'Who do you think you are, you little runt? I am lord of this manor through right of marriage, not you! You are fit for nothing but sweeping the shit off the floor!'

Francis jerked his chin up, his cheeks burning. 'If there is shit on the floor, stepfather, then it is because you've walked it in.' He flung the broom down again. 'So sweep it up yourself.'

'Hugh, take the lad outside and teach him manners.' Henry jerked his head at his youngest son, and Francis found his arm gripped in a vice-like hand. He let himself be dragged outside. His pride wouldn't let him protest his treatment, and he reasoned that a few bruises would arouse the servants' sympathy.

'Father's right, you know,' said Hugh conversationally. 'You_ are_ a little runt. I don't know why he doesn't turn you out of doors, but be thankful he doesn't.'

'You think he could get away with that?' Francis demanded, bitterness colouring his tone. 'The king would hear of it. As it is, I have no cause for complaint, do I?'

The first blow took him by surprise, and knocked him off his feet, onto his backside in the snow. Pain flooded his cheek and his hand went up automatically to ward off a further blow, but he forced it back down again. He would not be intimidated by Hugh, he vowed, not ever. The young knight could throw his weight around all he liked, and sneer to his heart's content, but he'd never break Francis.

'Get up, runt,' said Hugh. His arms were folded belligerently in a stance so like his father's that Francis nearly laughed out loud. He scrambled to his feet.

_'Manners_, your father said.' He turned his cheek towards Hugh. 'So go on then. Hit me again. I'm a slow learner after all.'

'You're the Devil's own, that's what you are,' growled Hugh, and let fly with his fist again. Francis spun and landed on his knees, spitting blood. Tears of pain blurred his vision, but he forced himself to his feet again. Hugh wasted no time with words, and struck a third time.

He planted his boot firmly on Francis' chest. 'Stay down,' he advised. 'I don't want to be hanged for murder.'

'Go to hell,' replied Francis through lips swelling with bruises. One eye had closed already, and stung excruciatingly. He made no attempt to rise again; Hugh was right. He did not have what it took to withstand a prolonged attack from someone as burly as Hugh, and he felt he'd proved his point anyway.

Hugh reached down and took a handful of Francis' tunic, hauling him up. 'Manners,' he grinned nastily, 'maketh a man.'

'You'd better learn some then,' Francis shot back, unable to resist. Hugh shrugged and dunked his stepbrother's head in the trough, then dropped him on the ground.

'You smell like a hog,' he said, and stamped back inside.

Francis shook the water out of his hair and smoothed it down, and sat by the trough until the sun had set and the house's candles had been lit. No-one called him inside; no-one came out to see him. Even the servants – those few left who had not been sacked by Henry on his return from court – gave him a wide berth, as if afraid they too would be dismissed if they were seen talking to the former lord's son.

And he tried to remind himself that was who he was. Francis, son of William Langton. William had been a great knight, earning himself fame and fortune on the tourney fields of England and France. Tall, dark-haired and good-looking, he'd been a hit with the ladies too, but despite temptation he'd remained faithful to his wife. Francis had been his pride and joy, being the only child out of six to survive beyond his fifth birthday. Francis wondered miserably what his father would have thought of Henry Vaughan. To most men, Henry was respectful, and respected. Perhaps they'd even have been friends.

A shape loomed above him in the dark, and he realised the yard was flooded with light from the open doorway.

'For Chrissake, get inside,' snapped Robert. 'The king will have our hides if you freeze to death out here.'

'And rob you of a servant?'

Robert aimed a kick, catching Francis on the ankle. 'I won't say it twice.'

Francis deliberated. Inside was warmth, and food, and outside nothing but cold, bitter cold. But inside was also hostility. Perhaps he'd be better off where he was. He bowed his head and drew his knees up under his chin.

'Oh for the love of….!' Robert grabbed his shoulders and hauled him up. 'Stubborn idiot! Do you _want_ to freeze?' He tilted Francis' face to the light and examined the bruise with a low chuckle. 'Hugh clocked you good, didn't he?' he grinned.

'The devil take him,' muttered Francis through clenched teeth, but made no further resistance as Robert dragged him inside.


	2. Chapter 2

The morning found him on his knees in the hearth, scraping out ash and debris in preparation for a new fire – the New Year fire. It was an old custom in the county that the new fire was lit from a piece of wood from the old one, to represent the continuation of the old year into the new, and Francis had given himself the task. It was a filthy job. Soot cloaked his shoulders since he'd also been ordered to sweep out the inglenook whilst he was at it; it caked in his hair and round his eyes and got under his fingernails and up his nose. He tried telling himself that this was his house and therefore his duty to keep the fires going, but despite himself he couldn't enjoy the job he'd volunteered for. The injustice of being a servant in his own house rankled; a lump formed in his throat and his eyes stung with unshed tears. His one consolation was that he was wearing new hose bought and paid for by Henry Vaughan, and now the knees were scuffed and black with soot.

'Mind you clean that soot up, when you're done,' said Hugh as he came in. 'You can go get a wash too. In the trough outside - no sense wasting hot water. Since it's New Year I'll even break the ice for you.' He sniggered at his own joke, his thumbs hooked in his belt and his hips thrust forward.

'New codpiece, Hugh? Little large isn't it?' Francis glared at the attachment to Hugh's hose, a monstrous thing in blue wool, and tried to keep his lips from twitching.

Hugh frowned, then rallied. 'I daresay I'll grow into it,' he smiled. '_Some_ men do. When you're done with the fire, I want my spurs cleaning. We're going to have guests soon enough and I want to look my best. You of course will just look like you, but that can't be helped - you're a _Langton_.'

Francis bit his tongue, and carried on sweeping, his eye ever on the precious sliver of wood smouldering in its basin, ready to start the new fire when the hearth was clean. He felt Hugh's gaze boring into his spine. His skin crawled.

'Have you heard who the guests are to be?' Hugh said, clearly of a mind to talk. 'Robert's to be married. Don't ask me the wench's name – I forget. Some ward of the Earl of Salisbury's. But she's a fine strong girl. Likely a breeder of boys, if you see what I mean.'

Francis did see. Robert was twenty-two; if he produced sons then the Manor would be his, no question. Especially if Henry Vaughan were lost at sea, a hazard all too likely since the king had declared war with France. He felt the blood drain from his face. He hoped the girl wouldn't breed, or that she'd produce nothing but daughters.

Hugh came to stand directly behind him.

'So if you want a roof over your head, I suggest you toe the line, _runt_.'

'Consider the line well and truly toe'd,' said Francis, rising with a Hessian bag full of soot and ashes. 'Excuse me. I have to take this to the vegetable patch.'

Hugh stood aside with a grimace. His mouth worked, clearly trying to think of a smart answer, but Francis was gone, having had the last word. He whistled to himself as he made his way around the side of the house to the back, where there was a sizeable kitchen garden. That too had become his domain, and he enjoyed what he grew there. Only a few evergreen herbs remained there now, in the dark of the year, and a few winter greens, but soon it would be time to turn the soil again and sew anew for the Spring. He looked forward to it, and spread the ashes with a smile on his face. There was more to being a manor's lord than merely owning it, he thought. He had to know the land, and the people, and be a part of it. Henry Vaughan and his sons would never understand that, and so Langton Manor could never be theirs. Besides, it still bore the name of Langton, and Francis vowed to make sure there was always a Langton at Langton Manor.

He raked grubby fingers through his hair, dislodging fine flakes of ash from the tangled dark strands. Was he really such a disappointment? He was tall, he knew he'd grown so because he could look Hugh directly in the eye, and Hugh stood high as his horse's withers. A good seventeen hands, Francis estimated, looking down at himself. But where Hugh had bulk, Francis had not filled out. Hand-me-down tunics hung loose on him, and hand-me-down hose just did not fit. He spread his hands. Long-fingered, but with a good strong grip, he thought his hands his best feature, especially since one of the goose girls had said so with a wink and a sultry smile. She'd even invited him to span her waist with them, and perhaps to cup her ample breasts, but he'd declined, having spied Robert watching with an air of distinct annoyance.

He bent, pulled up a half-dead weed, and shredded it disconsolantly. Spring seemed a long way off, and the winter sky hung dead and dull above him. Last summer seemed a thousand years ago, last summer with its endless days of soft sun and soft wind, soughing gently over the hills and downs to where the gentle Mendip country ended and Wiltshire began, its capital Salisbury with its imposing spire of golden stone, the Earl's banners drifting high above the city walls. He did not remember much about the Earl, and certainly nothing about his wards, though he knew there were two.

A shout came from the house, and he turned, reluctantly wakened from his musings.

'Francis! For the love of God, get in here and serve supper, will you? Or do you want us all to starve?'

Francis nodded vigorously, wondering if he dared voice the wish aloud. _Starving would be too good for you_, he thought. _Hanging, too, you brigands._ But murder would hardly get him Langton Manor back. For now, he'd best bide his time.

'Coming!' He shook out the Hessian bag, letting the last of the ash and soot drift into the wind, and made his way back to the house.

* * *

><p>Robert's new bride, Rosamund, was a beauty, and a harridan. Francis hated her. Soft golden hair curled to her waist, and her large blue eyes dominated her face. She used them to full advantage too, beguiling everyone she met with just a flutter of her long lashes. Everyone except Francis. She threw him out of his room, because she said it was the perfect room for a nursery. A boy's nursery. That rankled. At seventeen, he prided himself on being a man, and to have his room compared to a child's was almost more than his dignity could bear.<p>

'And your hair's too long,' she sniffed at him, her perfect little nose turned up in disdain. 'I'm sure Lord Vaughan will not want to hear how his house-servant's got scruffy in his absence.'

Francis ran his fingers through dark feathers of thick hair, and considered. It was long enough to hang just past his shoulders, tangling up in his sleeve points and clinging greasily to his neck. He dutifully cut it, several inches, leaving it to sit just above his collar. It was uneven, choppy, and most definitely not what Rosamund had in mind. She shrieked in horror when she saw him, and once again Francis was escorted outside and given one of Hugh's lessons.

'So, get up,' said Hugh mildly, after he'd delivered three violent punches. 'You're bigger than you were. I bet you can take more. So get up.'

Francis got up, and spat blood into Hugh's face. 'Take care not to wear yourself out,' he sneered, and promptly went down again. He probed gingerly at a tooth and flicked it out. He smiled. It had been loose for some days and he was glad to get rid of it.

'Not so pretty now, are you?' said Hugh. 'Come on, you lovely lass. Up you get.'

Francis got up, and braced himself for another blow. It never came. A shout from the yard gate had taken Hugh's attention, and he hurried away, leaving Francis sagging at the waist in the pain he'd never let Hugh see.

He watched, his curiosity piqued, as a richly-dressed hunting party rode through the gate. At their head was a tall young lord, and with him a girl. She wore deep red, and her cloak was lined with silver fur, flung back over slender shoulders. Francis was entranced. She looked to be his own age, but she could not lay any claim to beauty. Her nose gave rise to the opinion that she was of Roman blood, and her cheeks were red and blotchy with cold. Not a beauty, not at all, Francis thought. And yet…..there was something that made him want to look at her...he shook his head ruefully and made himself scarce, limping off to find water to wash the blood from his face.

He wasn't allowed to remain out of sight for long, however.

'Francis!' came the bellow, Robert's this time, and Francis wasn't quite quick enough to get into the hayloft and hide before Robert came stamping into the barn. 'There you are. Stir up and get indoors, will you? We need wine serving, and you to wait at table.'

'Your guests lack hands to serve themselves?'

'If you hadn't already had a thrashing, I'd stop and give you one,' said Robert. 'I'll tell you something, Francis. Our guests are Lord Estienne di'Paolo, and the Earl's other ward, Lady Mathilda, late of Winston. How does that impress you, boy?'

It did, a bit. Mathila Winston was not a name he'd heard before, but Estienne di'Paolo was. His father was Lord Oxford, who had earned infamy rather than fame. Who did not know of the Oxford Goose? Francis gnawed his fingernail, considering. Robert watched, his head cocked on one side and an amused smirk on his lips.

'Yes,' he said slowly. 'Lord Oxford. You were once at court much of the time,' he said. 'You should have lovely manners. And that, in a servant, will impress them no end. Especially the lady. We have her in mind for Hugh, and I know Father would approve.'

'She doesn't look the sort to want such a hog as Hugh,' shrugged Francis. 'But if he wants her, he can win her himself. Unless even you agree he's too repulsive.'

A sharp cuff to his ear made him bite his tongue, and once again the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.

'Watch your mouth, boy,' growled Robert. 'Or I will give you another thrashing! Now get along with you!'

Francis trailed after Robert as they joined Hugh to greet the visitors. He was vaguely aware that he had not bothered to wash his hands and face that morning, and he suspected that webbed in his hair were several strands of straw. He refused to scuffle them out, and stuck his hands behind his back, his chin thrust up in defiance of anyone noticing.

'My lady's horse has thrown a shoe,' said Estienne as he dismounted and handed the reins to the groom. 'We thought to spend the night here, if you'll allow us.'

Robert bowed, 'Of course, my lord. My house is yours.'

_Your house?_ thought Francis, and barely suppressed the sneer on his lips. He managed to stand straight and expressionless as Robert gave him orders to make up the guest chambers for the lady and her companion. He heard a faint giggle as he stalked off, and his ears burned. What did _she_ have to laugh about? he wondered. Her horse was lame and she was stuck with Henry Vaughan's oderous sons until the blacksmith could fit a new shoe - until the morning, at least, and he sincerely hoped she wouldn't stay any longer. Mathilda Winston had set certain parts of him thrumming, and he didn't like it one bit.

Looking round, he caught the goosegirl's eye.

* * *

><p>'Honestly,' the goosegirl giggled, 'I'd never thought I'd see the day.'<p>

Francis blushed, and re-laced his hose. 'I hope I haven't...er...I mean...I...'

'If you're worried 'bout there being a child, young man, then don't,' she said sternly. She straightened her apron, smoothing the creases Francis' hurried and urgent attentions had put in. 'How many lads do you think I've had? Certainly more than one, Francis Langton, and I daresay you won't be the last - indeed, I hope not! And yet - no babe have I! So you can take your pleasure and I'll take mine, and there will come nothing more of it.' She held out her hand to him, and he grasped it, allowing her to half-pull him up from their impromptu bed of hay. '_Did_ you enjoy it?'

He grinned. 'I should have done it a long time ago,' he said.

'So what's her name?'

That took him by surprise, and he gawped. The goosegirl rolled her eyes.

'Oh, come on! _Something_ got into you or you wouldn't have tumbled _me_ with quite such eagerness, not so suddenly after all the hints I've given you. So what's her name?'

But he shook his head, his cheeks burning and his eyes alight, and said nothing of Mathilda Winston or the fire she'd lit in him.


	3. Chapter 3

'So this is Langton Manor?'

Mathilda looked around her chamber with pleasure. The sheets were fresh, with little posies of lavender tucked inside the pillowcases. The floor had been well swept and the window still stood open, airing the room. It was a pleasant room, south-facing over the Langton fields, and the walls had been newly limed. They gleamed white against the deep wine of the bed hangings, and the old boards of the floor were polished to a dark shine, warm and inviting. She was used to the stone floors of old castles, and they were cold and uncomfortable even when carpeted with the rich weavings of India and Persia.

She patted the bed, thinking that it would be a very pleasant night, and that perhaps she could find an excuse to stay another. If only the house did not have Henry Vaughan as its lord.

'At least Henry Vaughan's servants don't stint their duties,' said Estienne from the doorway, clearly amused. 'We'll be comfortable, if not entirely...'

'Estienne!' Mathilda shushed him, giggling, afraid that one of the Vaughan men would hear. 'What choice do we have? They're the closest manor; the next one's not for another five miles and I can't go that far. At least, poor Sabin can't, with his poor lame leg and no shoe.'

He shrugged and came into the room, his hands tucked casually into his wide sleeves. 'No, Matty, I know, and we'll just have to put up with it. It's better than sleeping on the road or in the village inn, at any rate. Robert Vaughan has sent me to say that supper is about to be laid. Coming?'

She took the arm he offered, and gathering her kirtle skirts in the other, followed him down to the hall.

Most of the Manor was assembled there, more below the salt than above, Mathilda noticed. Of those above the salt, she was introduced to the falconer and the pastor, and Robert's wife, and left to surmise for herself who everyone else was.

'Watch your feet,' whispered Estienne, leaning towards her with his eyes cast down. She gave a stifled yelp as she realised she'd nearly stepped on a hound pup. She bent to pick it up but a snarl from underneath the table warned her off.

'That's Rufie,' said Robert, gesturing her to a seat. Mathilda sat. 'She's a good bitch, well bred like any lady should be, of course. Don't touch the pups though; she can get angry over them. I suppose you know much of hounds and hunting, my lady?'

'I enjoy a run with hound and hawk,' she replied, unwilling to concede him any common ground between them.

Below the salt, it seemed supper was half underway already, several rolls of bread having been filched from the platter and hidden in long cote skirts and sleeves, the thieves pulling the bread apart unseen and surreptitiously popping it in their mouths. Mathilda chewed her lip to keep from laughing at their audacity, and kept her eyes firmly on the cloth in front of her. The pastor banged the hilt of his knife on the table for silence and glared round at the diners, some of whom turned red and bowed their heads.

'We shall give thanks to God for the bounty placed upon this board,' he ordered, clasping his hands. 'And then we will eat. After prayers. _Not_ before.'

The laugh Mathilda had been stifling bubbled into her throat, and the pastor swung round to fix his glare on her. She turned the laugh into a cough, and apologised.

'Don't encourage him, Matty,' hissed Estienne. He gave her knee a squeeze.

Both of them had to admit that despite Henry Vaughan's reputation, his sons kept a good table. Whoever brewed the ale deserved praise for it, and whoever dressed the venison and created the sweets would find themselves in demand if ever they went to court. Mathilda kept her eyes down and left the conversation to Estienne, not wanting to catch Hugh Vaughan's eye. She knew he was trying to catch hers, and the thought made her flesh creep. She secretly thought she'd never seen such an ugly young man, with his pale orange hair and ears that stuck out at right angles from his head, lit to a soft glow by the lamps behind him. A club nose covered with freckles and a mouth with several teeth missing completed the look, but that wasn't the worst. It was the look of avarice in his eyes as he let them roam over her body, taking in every curve with a hunger that made her feel sick.

'Shall I pour more wine for you, my lady?' said a soft voice at her shoulder, and she looked round, startled. The servant she'd glimpsed in the yard earlier stood there with a silver jug in his hands, ready to pour. Wordlessly, she leaned aside and brought her cup near enough for him to reach over her shoulder and refill it. That brought him closer than she liked; he smelled of soap and herbs and warmth. Her eyes caught his hands on the jug, and then she wished she hadn't looked after all. He had beautiful hands, with slender fingers that had strength in them as well as gentleness, and smooth pale skin she itched to touch.

The cup filled, he took it up and set it back in its place above her plate, and she looked up at his face. She found him looking back, his dark eyes unreadable, straight black brows above them, and a straight mouth below.

'Thank you,' said Estienne to the servant. 'If you've finished serving my lady, my cup is also empty.'

This time, the wine was sloshed into the cup with nothing of the grace and solicitousness Mathilda had enjoyed. Estienne chewed his lower lip in anger.

'Were that servant mine, I'd have him thrashed,' he growled in Mathilda's ear once the man had moved on down the table. 'What lack of manners! If Vaughan saw that, he will be thrashed.'

'Hmm,' replied Mathilda, her eyes following the sullen young man. 'He's just a servant.'

'The same servant who made up your room? With lavender and posies? Just the way a lady would want it?'

'Estienne, don't tell me you're jealous of a servant?'

He shook his head. 'Not jealous, Matty, no. You know me better than that. But it seems to me he's taken a shine to you; be careful. Bolt your door tonight.'

She laughed. 'Estienne, seriously? What do you think he's going to do, creep in and deflower me? If he did, Robert Vaughan would kill him!'

'Bolt your door or I'll lie across it myself,' he insisted. She sighed, and agreed.

'Very well, if it makes you happy...but I think you're being silly,' she said. Raucous laughter suddenly burst from the lower end of the table, and she looked to see the young servant standing on one leg with his arm bent up near his chin, the hand posed in a semblance of a goose's head and a wicked grin on his face.

'What is it that comes this way?' came a chorus of voices, followed by a howl of laughter, for evidently they knew the answer.

'The Oxford Goose!' came the reply from farther up the table, accompanied by a loud honking and banging of ale cups on the table. The servant threw his head back and laughed, and made the 'goose' lunge for the nearest diner, a girl who squealed and giggled and hid her face in her neighbour's shoulder.

'Boo!' He laughed again and shaking his head, let the 'goose' disappear as he picked up the wine jug once more.

Mathilda, however, did not laugh, and beside her, Estienne had turned scarlet.

'If Robert doesn't thrash him for that,' he seethed, 'then by God I will!'

Mathilda blinked away tears of shame, and dropped her eyes to the cloth again. The Oxford Goose was Estienne's father; the derisive nickname had been given to him when he'd shied away from a battle in which two hundred Oxford men had died due to his shameful cowardice.

'Maybe he doesn't know it's your father...' she began, trying to smooth away the insult.

Estienne shook his head, tears of anger and shame sparking bright in his eyes. 'Who doesn't know?' he asked bitterly. 'I never thought to be the subject of ridicule on his behalf though. Matty, I'm for my bed. I hope to God we can leave early tomorrow, because I'm not stopping here longer than I bloody have to.'

Down the table, the laughter had died down, and the young servant who had insulted Estienne had gone back to pouring wine and carrying platters. But Mathilda's appetite had gone; she could no longer see in him the gentleness he'd shown to her earlier.

Taking her leave of her host, she followed in Estienne's steps and retired to her chamber, flinging the lavender posies onto the floor before she climbed into bed and drew the curtains shut tight around her.

* * *

><p>To his surprise, Francis did not receive a thrashing for the Oxford Goose joke. He expected to; and he'd spent three days after Mathilda's departure looking over his shoulder and wondering when it was coming before he'd got tired of it and gone to Robert.<p>

He took his belt off and held it out.

'What's that for, runt?'

'For the hiding I know you're dying to give me.'

Robert stared at him, incredulous, for a moment, then burst into laughter. 'A hiding? For the Oxford Goose? By God, boy, no, I'm not going to thrash you for that! The bloody fop deserved it; do you know what he said when I approached him and offered him Hugh for the lady Mathilda?'

Francis, nonplussed, shook his head.

'He said he'd rather kill her himself,' Robert snorted. 'He said he'd see her at the bottom of the sea before he'd let Hugh so much as touch a hair on her head.' He thrust his jaw out and glared at Francis. 'So you did me a favour, ridiculing that young ponce. No, you're not getting a thrashing for that. If you're so keen for one, I'll find something else.'

'There's bound to be something,' agreed Francis, shocked into ill-advised cheek by his step-brother's joviality towards him.

'If they come here again, don't bother going to so much trouble over her chamber either,' said Robert with a shrewd look straight into Francis' eyes. 'If the notion wasn't so laughable I'd say you were trying to catch her eye yourself.'

Francis' mouth twisted, but he kept his mouth shut and edged out of Robert's presence. Since he wasn't getting a beating there was no point hanging around. But Robert called him back, irritably snapping his fingers and pointing at a spot on the floor where he wanted Francis to stand.

'Not finished with you yet, boy,' he said. 'A message has come in from my father. We're summoned to court. In our absence you will run the Manor. Oh don't get your hopes up. You're still a servant here, and if you get any visitors by God you'll not tell anyone who you really are or I'll have your damn tongue cut out, hear?'

'I hear,' said Francis. 'Loud and clear. Is that all? I have a turnip patch to hoe.' He turned on his heel before Robert could protest, and hurried out of sight.

* * *

><p>The Vaughan retinue departed two mornings later, leaving Francis behind with a purse of silver for the running of the Manor and instructions once more to remember his place as a servant.<p>

'Here's hoping they're long at court,' said old Will the farrier. He'd come up from the village to give a final inspection on the Vaughan's horses, and had stayed long enough to see them off since he knew Francis would offer him luncheon.

'Here's wishing they were_ forever_ at court,' rejoined Francis with a grin. He'd seen the goosegirl on the edge of his vision, and was already imagining many pleasurable moments in her company. But there was a manor to put in order first.

He clapped his hands, summoning to him the few servants the manor still had; a chambermaid, the cook, and a young spit-lad. He wanted sheets laundered, floors swept, and a suckling pig threaded onto the spit to roast. There was a vegetable patch to plant with the first of the year's crops, there was mouldy hay to be grubbed out of the loft, ready for the summer's new stock already growing thick and green in Langton's meadows. He checked the purse of silver and was surprised to find three gold sovereigns in it. Enough for new candles and a bolt of linen; enough for scented soap and a small cask of Burgundian wine. Hugh was apt to let the manor's stocks of such things run a little bare, and Francis had grown up with plenty. His mother, he knew, would have approved. Rosamund probably wouldn't, but he didn't plan to ask her. She was laid up in her chamber, fat with Robert's child, and he was content to let her be, save for the necessary ministrations of food and wine and water to wash.

But soap and candles could wait an hour or so more. He took his cloak and left the manor by the north road, heading toward the little copse by Langton Pond where he knew his pretty goosegirl would be with her flock.

She was sitting cross-legged on the grass, her back straight and her barley hair loose under her kerchief, and he stopped a moment to look at her before making his presence known.

She looked up. 'Ah, so here you are, then.'

'For a time.' He dropped down beside her with a smile. 'I will have to go into Salisbury soon. Shall I buy you ribbons? Or perhaps a lozenge of sandalwood soap?'

She shook her head. 'You don't need to _pay_ me, Francis. I like you, and I like what you do to me. Though I suspect I'm not the one uppermost in your mind. You still haven't told me her name.'

'Nor will I.' It was cruel, he knew, to deny her the name of the one he'd rather have. But it wasn't in him to lie, and besides, she didn't seem to mind that his heart was not hers.

She gave him a shrewd look. 'I could of course guess,' she smiled. 'But isn't she rather out of your league? That is, out of a servant's league.'

'I'm a servant but not by birth, remember that,' he said, feeling snappish and on edge. His good mood gone, he wrapped his hands round his knees and leaned back. 'I intend to get back what's mine, someday.'

'I hope you do,' she murmured, and he didn't call her back when she rose and whistled her geese to her, wandering wearily into the fields and away from him.


	4. Chapter 4

Salisbury, that city of golden spires, always fascinated Francis. It was not part of Langton's domain, but was governed by the Earl of Wiltshire, though Francis had often ridden through with his father and pretended that _he_ was lord, not the Earl. Part of him still allowed that little childish fantasy, and he wandered through the streets thoroughly enjoying himself, his arm linked casually through his bridle. Salisbury was a town to walk through rather than ride, and he always made the most of such a visit.

He reached the apothecary's shop, looped his reins through the iron ring riveted into the wall for just that purpose, and went in.

'Ah, Francis Langton!' The apothecary beamed at him over the counter, his bare forearms pale and thin and powdered with dried herbs, for he'd been making up ointments and tinctures to sell. There was a herbal scent about the shop, not entirely pleasant, and Francis eyed with distaste the large glass jars of ingredients he could put no name to but which were decidedly not from plants. Indeed, some of them looked suspiciously like insects. He shuddered.

'Good day, Gilbert,' he said politely. 'Have you any rose soap? Langton's stores have run dry and I need more than ash-cakes for guests.'

The apothecary nodded, rummaged under the counter and produced several large squares of pale soap, deliciously fragranced with roses. Francis wrinkled his nose.

'How much?'

'One schilling.' He unwrapped one of the cakes and held it under Francis' still-wrinkling nose, a hopeful look in his eyes. 'Finest rose ottar, all the way from Persia. These are my last three cakes - can't get the oil so easily these days, what with France's ships crawling about the channel. Bunch of pirates! The Devil take them.'

Francis placed two small copper bits on the shopkeeper's counter and gazed steadily at the man who had but two moments ago asked him for a whole schilling for a lozenge of rose soap.

'Two bits, and that is all,' he said.

'One silver schilling!' The man curled his lip. 'Really, Francis, I know the boys don't leave you with much, but I too have a living to make! You'd have me cut me own throat, I suppose.'

'Nothing more than you deserve, you robber!' Francis added another copper to the two he'd already paid, and held his hand out for the soap. 'I paid less than this for a whole cake of lye.'

'And lye is made from nothing more than fat and ash, as well you know! This is rose soap! The oil alone...' He stopped short as the door swung open, and shut again with an imperative thud.

'You again!'

Francis looked round, recognising the cheerful voice, and came face to face with Estienne, his cloak flung over one shoulder and a fat purse of silver in his hand. He looked Francis up and down with amusement. 'Your servants said you'd be here. I hope that soap's not for the lady Mathilda. She's still smarting from her last encounter with you.'

'I'm still smarting from my encounter with the pair of _you,_' retorted Francis. 'Though I didn't get the beating I thought I would. Why have you come looking for me? If you'd waited back at Langton I'd have come by soon enough. I haven't the silver to linger here all day.' His tone was surly and he knew it, but the young lord Oxford was not someone he particularly felt inclined to be nice to.

Estienne glanced at the small packet of soap the shopkeeper had wrapped, and tossed a coin onto the counter. 'More than it's worth,' he said casually, 'but I can't be bothered to haggle today.' He reached out and took a handful of Francis' shirt. 'Coarse linen,' he said disapprovingly, 'so _coarse_! I see you in silk, with a cote of scarlet, as befits your station. Oh, I know what you're thinking. But I have to pay you back for the Oxford Goose.'

'What?' Francis began to wonder if this was what sea-sickness felt like. Trying to follow Estienne's thoughts was making him dizzy.

'You're coming to court,' said Estienne. He turned on his heel and looked back over his shoulder. 'At my Lady's insistence. The tailor first though! So come on, Sir Goose – or do I have to say _boo_?'

* * *

><p>'He can carry the bulk,' said the tailor mulishly. He stuck his chin out, grasped a handful of fabric and yanked it over Francis' shoulder. 'Drapes here, and here,' he said.<p>

'No,' said Mathilde, her sentiments echoed by Estienne and Francis, who both shook their heads. 'I want to see his shape.' She took a handful of pins from the astounded tailor and pinned the cloth to follow the line of Francis' body.  
>'There,' she said, standing back and raking a critical eye over him. 'That's much better.'<p>

'It's not fashionable,' said the tailor, outraged.

'It's _perfect,_' said Estienne. He glared at the tailor. 'We're paying you, so see it gets done the way we want it!'

'Oxford colours,' added Mathilde mischievously. Francis' eyes widened. 'Oh yes,' she continued. 'Estienne _did_ say you owe him?'

'He didn't say anything about humiliation,' muttered Francis.

'Oxford colours not good enough for you?'

'I'm a Wiltshire man,' he said sullenly. 'I'd prefer Langton colours.' If this was payback, he was going to enjoy it. Langton colours were burgundy and blue, whilst Oxford men wore white and green. Francis disapproved of both colours, unless they were in his garden. And anyway they were _Oxford_ colours. Not as bad as Vaughan colours, admittedly, but near enough.

He eyed Estienne sulkily.

'The subject of colour aside, tell me what this is about,' he said.

'Revenge,' said Estienne. 'You owe me for the Goose, as I've said, and I'd like to see your brother's pig face when you show up at court.'

'_Step_brother, if I have to lay any claim to family,' corrected Francis. 'So I'm a pawn in your little game?'

'I think we'll find you very game,' smiled Mathilda. She turned to the tailor. 'Two cotes of Oxford colours, and one set of Langton. He is to have hose and shirts also, and a hood. We'll fetch them a week from now.'

'You can have them two days from now,' snapped the tailor. 'It hardly requires all my skill, to do what you've ordered here!'

Estienne steered Francis out of the door with a backward glance of contempt for the tailor. 'He doesn't know what he's got, dressing a figure like yours,' he said with a smile. 'Most men are too short, or too bulky, or have a paunch the size of an ale cask. You're perfect.'  
>Francis felt his cheeks burning at the compliment. He'd never been called that before. Skinny, yes, slender and girlish certainly, but never perfect.<br>He spread his hands palm up, frowning at the calluses that long hours with the hoe and rake had given him.

'No-one will ever believe I am not a servant,' he said.

Estienne stopped, startled, then inspected Francis' palms.

'They'll think you train with a sword.'

'All very well, until I am called upon to use one!'

'Ah.' Clearly, Estienne had not thought of that. He looked at Mathilda. 'A man can't learn sword-play in two days, Matty,' he said.

She pursed her lips. 'What if….what if he were to be under a sort of holy vow, not to bear arms? I know of knights who have done such a thing – it's supposed to be a time of contemplation, peace in the sight of God. That would give you time to train him.'

'I trained before,' offered Francis. 'When my father was alive and I was heir to the Manor. But that was three years ago. I don't know how much my muscles would remember. Perhaps my hands have forgotten the feel of a sword. Besides, I don't own one. All the Manor's weaponry was appropriated by Henry Vaughan when he married my mother. I barely own a pocket knife.'

'We'll see,' said Estienne, striding ahead and already with his mind on other things. He turned, skipping backwards a few steps with his arms flung wide. 'I know all about lost inheritances. My own mother was divorced by my father, and it took several years proving myself on the tourney circuits before he'd acknowledge me as his own.'

Francis stopped. _'My_ father's dead. Who am I going to prove myself to?'

'The King.' Estienne winked, then grinned and snapped his fingers. From under the eaves of an ostlery a groom came forward leading a tall grey by the bridle. Estienne took the reins and vaulted lightly into the saddle. Francis hesitated, then mounted his own pony, a rough barrel of a creature compared with the fine Arab Estienne rode.

'You need a better horse too,' said Estienne. 'You can ride my grey - she has a tendency to sidle but I'm sure you'll manage. You sit well,' he added approvingly.

'I learned to ride when I was three years of age,' said Francis. 'I haven't been a servant all my life.'

'Didn't say you had,' said Estienne infuriatingly. Francis ground his teeth, crushing the urge to knock the young man off his horse onto the street. He'd never met anyone so cock-sure of themselves! Not even Henry Vaughan and his horrible sons were quite so irritating.

'Langton's a good ten miles hence,' he said, hoping against hope that Estienne and the lady Mathilda would see sense and not return there with him after all. But Mathilda rang her bridle bells with a laugh, and Estienne grinned and set his hat on his head at a rakish angle.

'Ten miles is not so far,' he said. 'Back to Langton with us all, Sir Goose - I want to see you with a sword in your hand!'


	5. Chapter 5

Francis wiped his sweat-soaked brow on his free hand and grimaced. Swords were not hoes or rakes. Swords cut into the palm, no matter how well callused, and left raw red marks that bled and itched. He felt as if he'd ploughed a field single-handedly, and wondered if this was the price he had to pay for Langton and the King's favour, and if it was worth it.

Cut. Parry. Cut. The rhythm of the movements was almost like a dance, and Francis neatly traced the required steps, his feet obeying even if his arms felt ready to drop off. Finally, Estienne called a halt.

'You're not half bad for someone's who's not wielded a sword for three years,' he said. He too had shucked off his shirt, and now stood dripping by Francis having ducked his head in the horse trough. He grinned, still breathless, and nodded his approval.

'Compared with Hugh, or Robert, I am a baby,' said Francis sourly. He flexed his sore hand. 'I'd best go salve this, or I'll be useful for nothing tomorrow. Go find Walter if you want some wine and cakes – you'll find him in the kitchen back.'

'Some host you are,' grumbled Estienne, and went off in search of food. Francis wrung out his dripping hair and donned his shirt, then loped off to find the salve chest. His mother had kept a good store of salves and ointments, along with powdered herbs and clean bandages, and Francis had followed suit after her death. It paid to have a good store of healing herbs, especially in the winter when roads were invariably under several inches of mud or snow. Ten miles to Salisbury's apothecary was too far in such conditions.

He picked out a jar of lavender salve and set about smothering his palms with it, then took out a length of linen bandage to bind up his hands.

'Here, let me do that,' said Mathilda behind him. He jerked round startled, then held out his hands in mute acquiescence to her ministrations. She took the strip of linen and began to wind it, her touch light as a feather.

'You'd make a good nurse,' he said after a moment. He felt awkward, undeserving. It had been a long time since anyone had helped him bind his hurts.

She coloured. 'I have done, many times. I was at the siege of Oxford, you know.'

'Ah.' Embarrassment and shame robbed him of words. He'd been unthinking, careless, cruel. 'I'm sorry,' he said at last, though it was inadequate, empty words that would not wipe the stain of the insult away.

'For the Oxford Goose? Oh, it's nothing that affects _me_. But Estienne has had to bear his father's shame. To have a stranger mock him is hard.'

'I didn't think.' It was a poor defence, and he knew it, but it was all he could offer. 'So what was it like?'

'Oxford? Or the siege?'

'Both.' Francis realised a genuine curiosity, having never been to Oxford. He'd come close, but he'd never had a reason to visit the old town with its churches and colleges and castle. 'I was at Warwick for a summer,' he said. 'There was talk of me going to college in Oxford, but that never happened. I don't think there was the money after father died.'

She smiled up at him, still on her knees before him though she'd finished with the bandage. 'You'd have made a good scholar.'

'I'd have made a bad one!' He chuckled ruefully, knowing she was right, that he could have gone far – if only he'd had the chance. 'I am impatient and undisciplined. No head for study.'

'But you're quick and clever,' she persisted. 'What if the King were to grant you a scholarship? He's been known to, you know, for young men who shine in their studies. He says education is important. He founded King's College as well recently – you may have heard?'

Francis shook his head, and rose, weary of talking about what could not be. 'I've got letters enough, Latin too, and I can do accounts,' he said. 'That is all I need for Langton Manor – and Langton Manor is all I want. Not colleges and the King's favour – you can keep that!'

'Oh, for the love of…!' Mathilda blew out her cheeks in exasperation. 'What Estienne sees in you I don't know. You're impossible!'

'Did I ask you to come here?' He was on his feet now, defensive and annoyed. They came here with the intent of helping him re-gain Langton, yet they still treated him like a silly child - a servant! He thoroughly wished both Estienne and the pert-mouthed lady Mathilda far away from his quiet Manor.

She shook her head. 'Learn to swallow your pride a little, Francis Langton, and you will go far.'

* * *

><p>Dinner that night was an awkward affair, caused mainly by Francis dithering over where he should sit. As host, he couldn't sit below the salt, but as servant, he couldn't sit above either. It wasn't a situation that either Mathilda or Estienne had any training for, and could offer no more help than to advise him to sit in the master's chair.<p>

Francis deliberated, his mood turned sour by his sudden insecurity in his own house.

'Oh sit down!' snapped Estienne. 'Be a master in your own manor, if you want it back!'

The servants looked at him expectantly. For many long months he'd sat with them, been one of them. What would they think if he suddenly took the master's place – his rightful place?

He walked slowly to the head of the table, stood behind the chair. He placed his hands on the back, then took them off again and put them in his belt, then behind him out of the way.

'You outrank me,' he said to Estienne.

'I'm the bastard son of a petty county Lord,' said Estienne scornfully. 'I do not outrank you. Sit down, Francis.'

Francis sat, reluctantly and feeling like an imposter. He knew that was ridiculous, but his new place had been thoroughly beaten into him, and though he thought long and hard about his rightful place, taking it wasn't as simple as he'd imagined. What if Hugh and Robert were to ride in and find him here, in their father's seat? He half rose again, and was pushed firmly down by Estienne, who took the seat to Francis' right. Mathilda took the left, and the pastor banged his cup on the board for silence.

He winked at Francis, then glared round at the other diners. 'Don't think I can't see you, Anne, put that roll back! And keep your hands off the cheese until prayers are done, or by God I will tell your mother, young Simon!'

The dairymaid and the stable boy both pulled faces, but demurely placed their hands together in deference to God. The pastor nodded approval. 'May God be praised for small mercies, that great men are kept in great castles in the King's keep and out of our way, that we may enjoy the fruits of our labour under a man who does not begrudge us the right to do so! Amen.'

Beside Francis, Estienne nearly choked with laughter. 'See? _They_ know where you should be.'

Francis gave him a look, and picked up his spoon. The broth was hot and fragrant, full of vegetables from his own land, with field beans and strips of chicken flavoured with cinnamon. He began to feel better. Langton land provided well, and Langton men ate well, with friends. There was no need to stand on ceremony here. He picked up the cider jug, rose, and poured for his guests and servants, saving his own cup for last. It felt good, to be both master and servant, and as he surveyed his table, full with the produce of his own land, he understood again what it meant to be truly part of Langton.

Afterwards, he sat with Estienne on the porch of the old house, a jug of orchard wine between them. Mathilda had gone to bed, declaring she had no wish to sit yammering away into the night with the pair, and the house was left silent, the table having been cleared and the kitchen chores done.

'So, you still haven't apologised for the Oxford….Goose,' said Estienne. He'd been fiddling with the collar of one of the dogs, and now began on the hound's ears, drawing forth a rumble of contentment. Francis, by and large, ignored the dogs, and found Estienne's affection for them amusing.

He shrugged. 'It was an ill-advised jest.'

'Jest? It was an insult, Francis. Still, I forgive you. My father deserves the name.'

'Mathilda says she was at the siege. I confess I don't know what really happened – only what the rumours said.'

Estienne fell silent a moment, busy with the dog's ears, his cheeks growing a little rosy.

'If you don't want to tell me…' began Francis, suddenly awkward. He didn't want to intrude upon Estienne's family shame. They barely knew each other, and he felt he didn't have the right to pry.

But Estienne's head jerked up, defiance in his expression. 'There isn't much more to tell,' he said. 'The rumours you've heard will be fairly accurate. My father refused to parley, and he refused to surrender, and yes, the truth is he was too afraid of Lord Warwick's forces to even show his face. So the town suffered; Lord Warwick called re-inforcements, and my father sent his men out to die on the field. If he'd listened to the terms of surrender, there would not have been so much lost. But he was afraid.'

'And stubborn, and arrogant,' added Francis. He regretted the words as soon as they were out. _Who am I,_ he thought, _to pass judgement on a man I've never met?_ _What would I have done, had I been there?_

Estienne stood up. 'You remember I said I owe you for the Oxford Goose? Good_. I_ haven't forgotten either.' He stalked off into the house, his back stiff with offence, leaving Francis to sit alone.

He sighed. He thought that if he could get through one day without upsetting someone, he'd be doing well. He thought Estienne prickly, but what would he have said, had the rumours been about his own father? He couldn't imagine anyone speaking ill of William Langton. He resolved to curb his tongue in future, where Lord Oxford was concerned anyway, though he knew he'd still enjoy winding up Henry Vaughan and his two dreadful sons. The beatings were worth it.

Two mornings later saw the delivery of the suit of clothes Estienne had ordered for Francis. The tailor had outdone himself, and the hose and cotehardies both fitted his form perfectly. He'd disgrace no-one at court in such attire – as long as he kept his sharp tongue in check. The thought made him blanch; he knew he'd last less than a day in court without offending someone.

'I've changed my mind,' he said. 'I'm not going.'

'What?'

Francis spread his hands. 'You've seen how I speak before I think,' he said. 'I'm bound to get myself into trouble – and by association, you too. So I don't think I'll go.'

'Oh, don't be silly,' Mathilda cut in. 'After we've got you the clothes, refreshed your sword-training, polished your manners? You're going, and there's an end.'

The two of them faced him defiantly, arms folded, daring him to argue further. Cornered, Francis was forced to agree that yes, he was indeed going to court. The prospect frightened him, and it wasn't only because he knew his mouth would get him in more trouble than he'd ever been in.

It was because he knew, without a doubt, that he'd run into Henry Vaughan and his sons, and that the encounter would not go well for him.


	6. Chapter 6

It was two days' ride to Oxford from Langton, and Francis, saddled with Estienne's grey mare that sidled and snapped at the bit, wished he could walk it instead if this was what he had to put up with. Mathilda and Estienne were merry travellers on the road, but he found their constant chatter irritating. Mathilda, he liked to look at, but he could not manage to find anything to talk to her about. She was court-wise, world-wise, and full of knowledge he didn't have. Several times he tried to start a conversation, only to find himself left behind when she rattled on ahead full of anecdotes and jokes and examples of her experience. He began to dislike her, and was disappointed by the realisation.

Estienne was little better, though he had advice for Francis, and so Francis listened carefully, determined not to disgrace himself at court.

'When you are first brought to the King's throne room, you must wait for him to call you forward,' said Estienne. 'Once you are, you bow, then advance halfway, and kneel. He'll tell you when you can rise, and don't speak until he speaks to you.'

'Don't worry on that score!' promised Francis fervently.

'And when you leave, bow yourself out backwards. You must not turn your back on the King until you reach the door.'

'I'll remember. I have been at court before.'

'Yes, but that was some time ago and with the old King. The new one's somewhat a stickler for the proper observations of manners.'

That didn't sound promising. 'What is he like?'

'Oh, he's affable enough, if he likes you,' said Mathilda airily. She considered herself an expert on the King, and one of the people he liked. Francis wondered how much the King did like her, or if she was spinning tales. He couldn't decide if she was the sort to do so. Perhaps the King really did like her.

'I'll make sure he likes me,' said Francis, hoping he had enough charm and good manners to impress the King. He hadn't managed to impress or charm many other high-ranking nobles however, including the two riding at his side. He chewed his lip and wished again he hadn't come with them to the King's court.

* * *

><p>The King's court, to Francis' dismay, was currently at Oxford, a bright camp of striped pavilions and colourful banners proclaiming the presence of several prestigious lords. Geoffrey of Lancaster was there, and Henry of Northumberland, his banner a silver Lion snarling out over a field of black. Lord Penderyn of Cornwall was there too, his sickle banner of blue and white flying high near the King's lion, a sign of his current high favour. Francis felt intimidated, not only by the gathering, but their proximity to Oxford, with its college spires and crenellated walls, the town gates flung wide for the King's court, tradesmen, and endless students. Francis admired their long gowns, their fingers stained with ink and their expressions studious. Hounds snuffled among the tents, looking for scraps, and with them Francis saw several grubby children, the bastard children of knights, to judge by their clothing, which was ragged and dirty, yet of good quality cloth. He blushed to see the camp's whores, decked out in their finery, for their patrons were of the King's court and wealthy. Several tried catching his eye, but he kept his gaze firmly between his horse's ears, refusing to look. Despite his new clothing, he did not have a silver penny to his name, having left what was left of Henry's purse with the Manor.<p>

They rode through Oxford's gate and along several streets, until Estienne drew rein outside a large, well-appointed inn called the Swan. He dismounted and tossed his reins to a groom.

'We'll stay here,' he said to Francis, handing Mathilda down from her horse with a knightly flourish. 'Better for you to stay in the town than in the camp. The town gates open at dawn and shut again at sundown, so be prompt back if you leave.'

Francis nodded, thinking he wouldn't be likely to go wandering among the bright tents of the King's camp, but the temptation was there nonetheless. His father had been full of tales of such camps, tourney camps, and he'd described every detail to his wide-eyed young son. Francis could almost hear the clash of swords, the chink of maille, the snorts and whinnies of the great warhorses, the jingle of harness and clash of lance upon shield. He'd never been to such a gathering, and though the King's court was no tourney camp, he still felt a shiver of excitement along his spine.

Estienne waggled a finger under his nose. 'No wandering off without your sword at the very least, and a servant too if you can! Here. I will hire you one. But best stick with me and Matty. We know this place.'

'I have little thought to go anywhere tonight, save to my bed,' said Francis, stretching muscles cramped from riding all day, and wincing a little at the soreness. 'I could do with a bath!'

Mathilda wrinkled her nose. 'I second that,' she said with a laugh. 'I'll see to it. You both smell like beggars!'

* * *

><p>The morning saw them in the King's pavilion as he broke his fast. Estienne had said that earlier was better, with the King, for if the day went badly he'd be in no mood to see dispossessed strangers, whether or not they be the sons of famous tourney knights granted land and privileges under his father, the old king. Francis had been wracked with nerves, minding well that it had been several years since he'd seen the King, and indeed back then, the man had been not King but Prince. Richard had nearly ten years on Francis, and was athletic and handsome with a spark of mischievous humour in his sea-blue eyes.<p>

He reminded Francis a little of his stepbrothers, though never so ugly. It was the colouring, the fiery Plantagenet colours of red and blue and gold. He felt that someone slim and dark would not get the King's favour over those who looked more like him, then dismissed the thought as silly. Looks had nothing to do with it.

Richard looked him up and down, slowly and critically, then waved him to a seat.

'I remember your father. Aspired to be like him, but there was no-one who could match him on the tourney field. His death was a blow to all sporting men, high and low!'

'And to me and my mother,' said Francis, before he could stop himself. The King raised an eyebrow.

'No doubt, and she is dead too, I believe? I was surprised that Henry Vaughan did not bring you to court with him – I _have_ asked to see you, for I remember you too, though you were barely out of tail-clouts. And now here you are as I wished, _still_ without him.' He leaned forward, his hands on his knees. 'What is there that I do not know, Francis Langton?'

Francis squirmed. Now they came to the crux, the reason he'd come here at all. And yet somehow the words wouldn't come, his own pride would not let him speak.

_I have lost my Manor to those I let take it._

_I am naught but a servant in my own house._

_The imposters beat me, and I have done nothing to pay them back._

He held the King's eye and could not look away, and all the while that slim red eyebrow climbed higher, the sea-blue of his eyes turned flint-violet instead as the silence stretched out.

'You do not speak?' Richard said at last, his voice flat with annoyance. 'Come now. You can speak plainly to me. I do not bite, despite what you may have heard!'

Francis gathered his courage. 'Sire, I do not speak because shame prevents me. I allowed Sir Henry Vaughan to take what is mine, and make me a servant in my own house after my lady mother's death. And I have not fought back.'

'Ah.' The King stroked his short beard thoughtfully. He did not seem surprised, yet anger darkened his complexion, though whether it was anger at him for bringing this to him, or at Henry Vaughan for being the cause of the visit, Francis didn't know.

'I have seen Henry and his sons,' said the King. 'Have they seen _you_?'

'No, sire. I arrived yesterday evening and I'm staying in the town – at the Swan.'

'We thought it best,' put in Estienne. He was lounging in his seat, one long leg crossed over the other and his hand toying idly with the stem of a green glass goblet. 'Francis has not quite spoken you true. He was fifteen when you married his mother to Henry Vaughan, but despite the tyranny displayed by that clan, he's managed to maintain a hold on Langton, though it's not immediately apparent. If he wanted, he could take the place. The servants and the villagers are loyal to him.'

Richard turned an agate-hard stare on Estienne. 'Indeed? Then why does he not?'

Estienne looked to Francis, not having the answer. Francis thought hard, then decided only the truth would do.

'Henry and his sons are bigger than me,' he began, but the King cut him off with a contemptuous snort.

'Many men were bigger than your esteemed father, but did that stop him? He rose to become the greatest tourney knight this land has known since the Marshall, and you think that because three men are bigger than you, you cannot fight for what is rightfully yours?'

'Sire, I…'

'What is it that you want me to do for you, Francis Langton?'

That stung Francis. To think that Richard thought him a weakling, come snivelling to his throne to beg for assistance! To be mocked for a whining child, afraid to get his nose bloodied, afraid of beatings. He glanced at Estienne, and saw the young man's lips twitching with a smirk that wasn't friendly. He'd been played for a fool! His own pride had been used as a means to get him to disgrace himself, and he'd fallen for it, dangling on Estienne's hook like a wet fish. He could have kicked himself.

He rose, bowed to the King, and spoke. 'I thought to bide my time at the Manor,' he said. 'I have learned all the workings of Langton, I have worked as one of the servants and know my villagers and retainers well; I know the land, I know the countryside. And,' he added with a glare for Estienne, 'though I've allowed Henry Vaughan's reign on my lands for too long, my father was not Lord Oxford and I can at least claim some pride for that! By your leave, sire.'

He bowed himself out, knowing that since he hadn't been dismissed, he'd be out of favour with the King.

And with Estienne. Angry heat flooded his face as he realised what he'd done. He'd admitted shame and weakness, he'd given himself leave to go when the King had not. And he'd insulted a lord in the King's presence.

He would not be welcome at court again.


	7. Chapter 7

Francis mounted his mare at the Swan amid Mathilda's protests. He'd told her the story, and though she'd rolled her eyes and called him several unflattering names, she'd begged him to stay. Perhaps the King would accept an apology? Perhaps Estienne would, if Francis would only stay until she'd spoken to him.

'If you would just apologise, I'm sure it will all be fine!' she pleaded. 'Just stay and see if he gives you a chance. I'm sure he will.'

Francis thought not. 'I've insulted him once too often, and I didn't apologise the first time,' he said between his teeth, wishing her away. He wished himself back at Langton, a hoe in his hand, or perhaps the goosegirl's ample breasts. He knew how to handle those. Offended lords and kings were another matter.

Mathilda clung to his stirrup. 'He is not one to bear grudges. He will accept your apology if you make it. _Please_ try, Francis!'

'He _does_ bear a grudge! What do you think this is all about, really? He said he'd pay me back for the Oxford Goose, and this is how! I fell for it like a fool, so I suppose I deserve it.'

She looked bewildered. 'What do you mean?'

'Let go of my stirrup, lady,' he sighed, gathering up the reins in his hands. 'I'm away back to Langton.' He heeled his horse forward, forcing Mathilda to release her grip, and clattered out of the inn yard into the street.

She didn't call him back, and he realised he'd been listening for that call. He regretted its absence, knowing he'd not be likely to see her again, unless she came to Langton Manor and required him to wait upon her. He didn't think he could stomach that however.

He cast a look over his shoulder, and saw her watching him from the inn's gate, silent and accusing. She looked like a pale ghost haunting the gateway.

He raised his hand in farewell, and rode out of Oxford.

He'd ridden for perhaps half a day when Henry Vaughan's two sons caught him up. He'd entered a greenwood, the road straight and narrow through it, and despite the law the undergrowth on either side had not been cleared – another sign of Lord Oxford's laxity if his verderers were not doing their job. Several feet had to be cleared back from roadsides so that thieves could not lie in wait in the undergrowth, but here it looked as if they would have a field day if they so wanted.

But the day was a wet mizzle, soaking slowly into his cloak and spangling his hair with diamonds, and he doubted there would be anyone willing to wait in this for some hapless rider to come along. Besides, he had nothing worth stealing, except his horse and sword, and he could use that if he had to.

He rode with his head down against the rain, thoroughly miserable, and didn't see the two burly men blocking his path.

Hugh swung first, a hefty blow with the flat of his sword, and knocked Francis out of his saddle, the mare sidestepping with a frightened snort.

Robert dismounted and hauled Francis up by his collar.

'So,' he snarled. 'The runt runs away home! What did you tell the King, you little bastard?'

Francis tried hard to focus, but Hugh had struck him hard on the side of the head. He could feel the thin trickle of blood where the skin had broken, a hot wetness on the side of his face. He felt sick, and knew he could not stand without aid. Only Robert's iron grip on his cote prevented him crumpling to the ground.

Robert shook him viciously. 'I asked you a question!'

'That's enough, Rob.' Hugh came forward and took Francis's chin in one ham-like hand. 'I hit him too hard. It'll be awhile before he can think straight! Throw him over his horse and let's go.'

Francis shuddered as Robert grabbed him around the waist and slung him over his saddle. His head span, and the nausea he'd been swallowing came rushing to the fore, and he was heartily sick. Then blackness came.

'You've damn well killed him,' muttered Robert to Hugh as he gathered up Francis' reins in one hand, his other on his own. 'I always said you would, one day. Happy now?'

'I have not killed him. He's merely passed out; he'll come round in a bit. Don't be such an old woman! What's the matter – you'd miss the lad, is that it? Faw!'

'I might not, nor you, but what about the King?'

Hugh mounted up irritably. He'd had enough of Richard, and Francis, and even Robert. He shook out his cloak, showering his brother with cold drops of water, and grinned nastily. 'The King can go to Hell and roast for all I care! If he takes the runt's side then he's a fool, and I'll not suffer him within twenty miles of Langton!' He spurred his horse forward, setting off at a canter through the wood. Robert followed behind with Francis, the lad barely held to his saddle by a thin length of rope they'd brought for the purpose.

'And you're a fool to speak so of the King!' yelled Robert. 'It is by the King's grace that we hold Langton! Or would you have us lose not only that but our heads too?' He urged his horse forward alongside Hugh's, and reached out to grasp a handful of his brother's cloak. 'Where are you taking the lad?'

Hugh hauled hard on his reins. Under his hat the rain had misted his face, fat cabochons of water soaking through his eyelashes and dripping from the end of his blunt nose. He glared at Robert. 'There's an old tithe barn two miles hence,' he said with a rheumy sniff. 'No-one uses it, it's been left rotting in the woods since the Saxons buckled under William's rule, I would say. We'll take him there.'

'Why not throw him in a ditch and let the briar-rose take him?' Robert glanced round at Francis, still unconscious across his mare's back. 'Cut his throat and blame it on robbers. The verderers and Lord Oxford both would take the blame, and we can hold Langton in peace.'

But Hugh shook his head. Heavy-handed and with a taste for doling out beatings, he would not stoop to murder, and said so.

'Then he'll be back to be a thorn in our side,' said Robert. His mouth turned down, and he crossed himself. 'May God keep us, and the Devil take him!'

'Amen to that,' agreed Hugh, and set his spurs to his horse again.

* * *

><p>Francis woke, sick and disoriented, and found himself on a makeshift pallet of straw and rough wool. His head swam and his stomach roiled and he knew if he tried to rise he'd be sick again. Raising a hand, he gingerly felt at the bruise on his temple and found it sticky with foul-smelling goose-grease salve. He recognised it as the salve he kept a good stock of for minor wounds, in his mother's old medicine chest. It stank, but was effective, and he almost laughed at the thought of one of his stepbrothers carrying a jar.<p>

He looked around, and found that he was alone. Dirty light filtered in through a window high above him, and he saw that he was in an old tithe barn such as the Saxons had built several hundred years before, high walled and thatch roofed and stinking of mould and must and old hay.

They hadn't bound him, just left him lying, out cold, on dirty straw. There was a jug of water on the floor near his head, together with a chunk of coarse bread. They evidently didn't mean him to die, then. He thought that something at least, and sat up slowly, his hand to his head.

The room spun. His vision floated and the burning bile rose in his throat again. His limbs felt boneless, and he knew if he stood he'd be unconscious again within seconds.

He lay back with a groan, and closed his eyes. There'd be time enough yet to mend, and eat, and gather his strength. At least they hadn't left him to die.

* * *

><p>'You idiot!' Mathilda shrieked. 'You rotten fool! Of all the stupid, stubborn…you don't deserve friends, Estienne, not after this! How <em>could<em> you?'

'I suppose you think he was right, to speak so to the King, then leave without a word? I suppose it's my own fault. I_ knew_ you'd take his side, Matty.'

Mathilda faced Estienne across the table, laden with a supper neither of them had touched. She'd been fuming for the last two hours, waiting for Estienne to return from his meeting with the king and unable to go after Francis. If truth be told, she thought them both too stupid for words, but Estienne was right; at present her sympathies did indeed lie with Francis.

'It was his own mouth damned him,' said Estienne, as if sensing her thoughts.

'You knew it would.'

'So I did. So, he's ridden off and left you and gone back to his manor to be a servant. What did you expect? Can't make swans out of ugly ducklings, after all.' He sat down at the table and began heaping his plate with slices of bread and meat.

'Excuse me, but you can,' snapped Mathilda. She refused to sit and eat with him. 'I thought that was what we were doing.'

'No, we were teaching him a lesson he won't forget in a hurry,' Estienne said with his mouth full. He chewed and swallowed before continuing. 'You needn't worry though. Richard was more amused than annoyed. He says he'll see what can be done for the boy.'

'Young_ man_!'

Estienne put his knife down and stared at her. Then his expression turned rueful and he laughed. 'So, I should have seen that coming! Matty, my dear, you've set your sails to the sun, you know that? Francis Langton has royal blood. Oh, you didn't know? Sit down, eat, and I'll tell you.'

Stunned, she sat, and let him cut her a generous slice of bread and cheese. 'I know you don't like him, but you don't see what I do,' she said. 'I see a nobleman. He's clever, he's gentle – no, he is, really,' she insisted, as Estienne's mouth turned down in disbelief. 'You two have just got off on the wrong foot, that's all. You quite like him too, admit it.'

'Pah! He does nothing but ruffle feathers wherever he goes. I don't see what's so likeable.'

Mathilda slammed her cup down in fury. 'So you think his odious step-family is right, do you? Your father was his father's friend, or have you forgotten that?'

_'He's_ forgotten it!' Estienned thrust his chair back and stood up, his face scarlet with anger. 'He seems to have forgotten _all_ his father was!'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean, his father was cousin to Joan, King Henry's third wife. Francis Langton has royal connections – a fact not true of Henry Vaughan, and something he could have used to his advantage. But he opened his careless, indiscreet mouth and ruined it. And for that I'm supposed to be sorry!' He dropped back into his seat with a blustery sigh, and drained his continued to stare at him, hard and unflinching.

_'What?_' he demanded.

'You know what.'

He sighed again, for he did know. And Mathilda, when she got an idea into her head, usually got her way. 'Very well. First thing tomorrow I will speak to Richard again, see if we can get permission to leave court and go back to Langton.'

Mathilda's face broke into a sunny smile, and she poured wine for him. 'Thank you, Estienne.'

'That's not all I'll speak to him about, mind,' he said darkly, and she blushed, knowing full well what he meant.

She hoped he was right, that the King would view Francis' bad manners with leniency, and allow him back at court.

They set off the next morning before dawn. Mathilda was eager to get away, and harried Estienne mercilessly for speed. He's sent word to the King that they were leaving, and the King's reply had been scathing, but he had not refused them their mission. _If you can bring him to heel, and teach him some manners, then I will give to you a fat purse of silver for the privilege of bearing witness!_

The jingle of harness, the steady thud of her horse's hooves, had embedded in Mathilda's mind on the road back to Langton. With it was the fear they'd find Henry Vaughan there, but worse than that, was the fear she would only find Francis. He probably did not want to see her, and certainly not Estienne. She gnawed her fingernails down to the quick with worrying, until Estienne slapped her hand away with an exasperated oath.

'Just remember this was your idea,' he scolded.

Ahead, LangtonLake appeared, a shimmering mirror of grey and blue under the Spring sky, and a little farther brought the Manor into sight. Mathilda sweated cold under her chemise, and even Estienne slowed his horse to a walk.

'I don't want to look as if I've run here,' he muttered sullenly at Mathilda's questioning look. 'It's not as if he's important.'

'He clearly is or you wouldn't be here at all,' she retorted, and kicked her horse into a canter.

They were greeted at the Manor by Walter the Cook, who came forward to meet them with surprise.

'Sir Henry's not here,' he said, grasping Mathilda's reins as Estienne helped her dismount. 'Neither's young Francis – I thought he should be with you, indeed! I can see what's in the larders but 'twill be plain fare, my lord. My lady,' he added, as Mathilda looked disappointed.

'But how can he not be here? He left Oxford a day ahead of us!'

Walter shook his head. 'Alone? My lady, he has not arrived. It's just the servants here.'

'Are you sure? If Francis is here we'll root him out, then you'll wish you hadn't lied.' Estienne fingered his whip and glared. '_Is_ he here?'

'No, young sir, I swear it. Why, what has happened?'

'We've lost him,' Estienne said grimly. He strode into the house, his brows snapped together in displeasure and worry, his mouth downturned. Mathilda followed, with Walter close on her heels.


	8. Chapter 8

Francis woke to find a cold cloth on his forehead and the warmth of a fire on his body. The pain in his head had dulled to a vague throb, but his mouth was dry and his bones felt like lead. He rolled over, then pushed himself up, sitting with his head in his hands for a moment as the room spun.

'Woken up, have you?'

Francis recognised Hugh's voice, and groaned. If Hugh was here then things would not go well for him.

'Yes, and I'm sure you're wishing I never would,' he said through clenched teeth. 'Why have you brought me here?'

'To keep you out of the way for a bit. You're a bloody liability, Francis. All you had to do was bide quiet at home until we got back. But _no._ You had to go running to the King, like the whiny little brat you are!'

Francis snorted contemptuously, and scrambled unsteadily to his feet. His head still hurt, and he wanted to kick Hugh. It would be long overdue. He didn't have the strength to withstand the retaliation he'd get in return, however. Hugh had proved that to him time and again. He picked up the jug of watered wine and took a long drink, wiping the drops from his chin on his sleeve. It was weak, sour wine, typical of the sort the Vaughans kept at Langton. Despite Henry's expertise with silk and spices, his taste did not extend to good wine. Francis grimaced.

'And what of the two that were with me?' he asked, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. 'It was their idea that I go to court.'

'We know,' said Hugh grimly. 'Don't worry, they'll be dealt with.'

'And me? What of me?'

'We want you to bide quiet. Since you seem unable to do it at Langton, you'll be doing it here instead.'

Francis digested this in silence. He didn't think Mathilda or Estienne would be in any danger from his stepbrothers, even if he wanted them to be, but for himself he felt thoroughly wretched. A draughty tithe barn was no place for an injured man to have to sleep. The blankets stank, and he'd have to rely on his gaolers for food and water, and firewood too. He wondered if the King knew of this. But if he did, what difference would it make? He'd insulted Richard, and Estienne too. _What have I done? _he wondered. And into his head came Lady Mathilda's grave face, her wimple unfettered by pins and blowing free about her shoulders as she sat her horse staring down at him in the Manor yard. He hadn't thought much of her then, just that she was haughty. Now, he wanted more than anything to have her by, with her quick wits and unassuming charm. _She'd_ talk Hugh into letting him go, he was sure, though a voice at the back of his mind said that was a foolish thought.

But she wasn't here, there was only Hugh, and he was a prisoner.

'How long?' he asked hoarsely.

Hugh shrugged. 'It depends. We need to secure Langton from you – Rosamund's baby will be born any day now I would think, and then we'll see. You'll be here at least until then.'

'And if I go back to Oxford? To the King?'

'Boy, it's ten leagues to Oxford from here! How far do you think you would get, with no horse and no real idea of where you are? We'd catch up with you within a half-day, and drag you back here where you'll wait in chains until we take you back to Langton as a servant!'

He rose and threw another large log onto the fire, where it smoked and spat with all the fury Francis felt. But his was futile; what could he do against his stepbrothers?

_Bide your time_, he told himself. _Bide here quiet, as he wants._ There was nothing else to do except wait and hone his wits.

'Don't think you'll be missed either,' said Hugh with a narrow-eyed look at Francis. 'God knows you've managed to offend even the King! How your head is still on its shoulders I'll never know.'

'Remember King John?' Francis said suddenly.

'What of him?' Hugh's lips thinned and his eyes glittered with suspicion.

'Remember how he lost the Crown on the Norfolk broads? Among other things? And how they say now that everything comes out in the Wash?'

A log rolled from the fire, scattering sparks into the wisps of old grey straw that littered the barn's floor. Hugh kicked it back with one thick boot. 'I remember,' he said. 'But you should remember this: that in the King's eyes you are nothing. No-one at court remembers you, and even if they did, would they care? You're not a courtier, you're not a knight, and you're certainly not a politician, churchman, or official. You're _nothing_, no-one! So all this about things coming out in the wash...I wonder, _will_ they, Francis? I think not, because there is no-one to wring them out and hang them to dry for all to see. Now. _Bide quiet_!'

Hugh left at first light, leaving Francis bolted inside the barn, a rope from one ankle to an old iron ring in the wall. He couldn't go far; a mere ten feet, and the rope chafed.

He lay down near the fire and prepared to endure.

* * *

><p>The King paced the room, his temper marginally less murderous than it had been two minutes before. Several pages cowered on the edges of the great pavilion, hoping he wouldn't notice them and turn that burning Plantagenet fire their way. Estienne too was holding his breath, though it was he who had caused the King's fit of anger.<p>

Richard turned on Estienne, fists clenched, his face scarlet. 'How could you be so _stupid_?' he thundered, echoing Mathilda's earlier words.

'He insulted me, sire,' said Estienne sulkily.

'If you haven't learned by now to let those jibes about your father wash over your damn head, then you never will,' said Richard acidly. 'How many whispers and rumours have I had to hear about my grandfather? Francis Langton was careless with his mouth, it's true, but he's just another servant who does not know what he's talking about, and you let him get to you!'

'Only he isn't,' said Estienne. 'A servant, that is.'

Richard nodded irritably. 'And now he's disappeared. _And_ the lady now haring off round the country after him is Earl Salisbury's ward! My half-brother! I suppose you expect_ me_ to tell him.'

'No, sire.' Estienne hung his head, defeated. He knew Richard's limits, and this was it. Earl Salisbury was no Lord Oxford, to be frightened of his own shadow. Earl Salisbury would blame him for his ward's disappearance, and the consequences would be dire.

'Well, get after her then!' Richard's voice took on a steely timbre, and Estienne knew what that meant. It meant a good hiding, if he didn't obey, at the King's hands. Richard was a fine pugilist, putting sheer muscle behind his height as well as skill, and Estienne could not match him.

He prepared to travel with a heavy heart. He knew Mathilda would be riding the road to Oxford, hoping for a trace of Francis, and he also knew there was dangerous country there, thanks to Lord Oxford's laxity and the proximity of the road to London. It was both lucrative and easy for bandits and outlaws to hide in the undergrowth by the forest roads. Likely she'd already run into some, if Francis hadn't. And he, Estienne, certainly would.

He reached the woods and slowed to a trot, his eyes darting left and right, hoping to see any attackers before they could surprise him. Spring growth was prolific, and nettles and briars abounded, obscuring his view into the trees. His one comfort was that anyone hiding there probably had a sore arse from the nettles, but it was a small comfort and did nothing to ease the unpleasant sense of being watched.

The traveller caught up with him seven miles into the countryside, his hood thrown back from his head and his hair, curly and dark, loose on his shoulders. Estienne didn't recognise the man, but there was something familiar about him that he could not place.

'The day's greetings to you, sir,' said the man. 'Are you going far? I thought to ride with you, if you'll have my company.'

Estienne did not want company, and was tempted to be churlish. But the young man's eyes were earnest; there was nothing to fear from him and anyway, the company through thick forest growth like this might be a good idea. Two grown men were a deterrent, perhaps, where one would not be.

He nodded curtly, and gave his name, but not his rank. It wouldn't do to advertise.

'I know your name,' said his new companion. 'I have seen you at court often enough, and in my lord's household. I am William of Longley, formerly of Langton Hall.'

Estienne was surprised. 'A servant?'

'Courier, and messenger,' corrected Longley. 'A servant of no-one but the King.'

'And he's sent you to find me?'

Longley shook his head. 'Not him, no. I've come of my own accord, and not to find you – to find my lord. You've heard he's missing? He's not been seen at Langton for several days. I had thought he was with you but it seems not.'

'Your lord? Francis Langton?' Estienne was stunned. How had Francis managed to maintain a courier?

Longley shrugged. 'He is, rightfully,' he said. 'No-one likes the Vaughans.'

'I wonder why,' Estienne said dryly. He took a long look at the missive rider. Longley was laden with satchels, full of letters no doubt, and the stiff leather tubes that held more important documents – such as a king might hadn't been all his life at court not to know a rat when he saw one.

He drew his sword, the tip a hair's breadth from Longley's throat.

'You tell me who sent you or by God I'll slit you from throat to gusset and may the Devil take you!'

Longley flung up his hands. 'I swear by God I am Langton's man, to the core, and the King's too! I have papers of safe passage, if you need proof.'

'Well, let's have them!'Estienne jerked the sword point at the satchels hung across Longley's torso. 'And whatever else you're carrying.'

'Those are private correspondences! I'm not privy to their contents.'

'_I_ will be, however. Unload them, at once.'

Longley hesitated, uncertainty flickering across his face. 'I cannot do that.'

'You can and you _will_.' Estienne increased the pressure on his blade, digging into the skin of Longley's neck. Not enough to draw blood, just enough to make the man blanch in fear. Longley nodded and unloaded his scrip, flinging it on the ground. It fell open, scattering letters into the mud. Estienne would have to dismount and grub for the letters if he wanted to read them.

'You'll find nothing untoward, I assure you,' Longley said.

'I hope not,' replied Estienne. 'For your sake.'

He picked up a stiff leather tube and pulled up the top. Inside was a scroll, carefully scribed and carrying...not the King's seal, as he'd expected, but Langton's. Estienne smiled. This should be interesting.

He unrolled it, and held it up to the fading light to read.


	9. Chapter 9

Richard read, then re-read the missive Estienne had intercepted, then carefully placed it on the table before him and steepled his fingers under his chin.

'I thought you should see it, Sire,' Estienne said, more unnerved by his lord's apparent calm. He'd expected Richard to hit the roof, which would be usual, but Richard didn't seem inclined towards any displays of temper this day.

'This William of Longley,' said Richard slowly, 'where did you say you met him?'

'On the road between here and Langton, through Carvanell Woods.'

'Funny he should chance along that road the very hour you were upon it. Where is he now?'

'I know not, sire.' Estienne cleared his throat. He didn't like the suggestion that he had anything to do with William of Longley, that he'd engineered the meeting for his own ends. Or for Francis' sake. 'I never heard of William of Longley before now, sire.'

Richard nodded thoughtfully and flicked the edge of the letter with his finger. 'Read the last paragraph, Estienne.'

Estienne did as he'd been bidden, though he'd already seen it. It was William Langton's Will, carefully scribed and with his seal and signature written in faded black ink. It stated very clearly that Francis was his heir, no matter how many sons Mary might bear in the future, no matter who her husband. William Langton had known she would eventually remarry, and at the King's behest. Such a Will, endorsed by the Church, was binding, and only a very greedy or very stupid King would have dared override it. But how had the King not known? Richard usually knew the dealings and affairs of all his knights and courtiers, but somehow this had slipped by. Estienne decided some digging ought to be done, and he would do it. _Somebody_ had known, and _somebody_ had hidden it.

Richard gestured impatiently. 'I did not choose well for her, it seems.'

'I am sure that...'

'Oh, shut up, Estienne! For once I don't require you to humour me. I know I've made a miustake.' He sat back with a sigh. 'Francis Langton is a fly in the ointment of my life.'

Estienne squirmed. The letter had been of no use in the finding of the missing Francis.

'Does Francis know about this, do you think?'

Richard waved a hand irritably. 'Who knows? I'm more concerned about where he is! For the love of God, Estienne, why can you not find him?'

'I'm not a tracker or a hunter, sire,' Estienne said sulkily.

'I'm on the verge of confiscating Langton Manor,' Richard continued as if Estienne had not spoken. 'I have every right, and I'm sick of this bickering. In fact, I'm going to do exactly that! Send for the scribe and I'll send the missive today.'

He sat down hard, stuck his feet on the table, and stared up at Estienne as if expecting him to challenge his decision. Estienne merely bowed, sent for the scribe as directed, and set his mouth in a grim line, refusing to speak unless he was spoken to.

And within half an hour, Langton Manor was secured to the Crown, and Francis Langton was rendered homeless.

* * *

><p>Henry untied the ropes holding Francis captive, and knocked him down, more out of habit than any real malice. 'Get up then,' he said with a nasty grin. 'Lying about on hay has made you soft, <em>runt<em>.'

'Let me guess, you're here to take me home and apologise, leaving Langton Manor and its domain in my keeping,' sneered Francis, in no way subdued by several days' captivity in a dark barn. Henry shrugged.

'No, not quite. But if it's any comfort to you, the Manor's not ours anymore either. By decree of the King, the devil rot his damn bones! And all because of _you._'

Francis blinked. The King had appropriated Langton Manor? 'What for?'

'Because he's a baseborn whoreson who could never let other men rest easy in their own fiefs!' flared Henry. He waggled a finger at Francis. 'You didn't hear me say so. Now get up!'

He didn't wait for Francis to struggle to his feet, but grabbed hold of his collar and hauled him up. 'You're coming back to Langton. For now. If the King thinks he's getting away with this, then he can think again! What a way to treat his own silk and spice merchant!'

'What a way to treat the son of his father's champion knight,' retorted Francis, and danced out of the way of Hugh's fist. He knew well enough what that felt like. 'Am I walking back to Langton or riding?'

'Good Lord, boy, do you think I'm a fiend? You'll ride of course. After all, I'd like to actually get there sometime before Christmas. Come on!'

Langton wasn't changed, and though Francis knew he shouldn't be surprised at that since he'd only been gone a week at most, there was still some part of him that had expected to find his home in ruins, or inhabited by outlaws, lechers and miscreants.

The fact that the old house had quite happily muddled along without him was somehow offensive, as if everything should have fallen apart in his absence. But that was ridiculous. Most of Langton's servants had been there before he'd even been born, and some, he was pleased to find, had been reinstated. He would no longer be required to sweep hearths or muck out the byre.

And he wasn't required to wear the livery.

'Why?' he asked.

'You earned a respite,' said Robert, fingering the fabric of the cloak he'd just given Francis. He glanced at his baby son, swaddled in linen and half suffocated in his mother's arms. 'You're a Vaughan. Time to treat you like one.'

He stamped off, and Francis, left with a barely adequate explanation, stood by the window and stared at Rosamund.

She stared back.

'You look well,' he ventured, after what seemed a century of silence. It was a lie. She didn't look well. Pale cheeked and dull-eyed, she held her son almost defensively. Ragged gold plaits were roughly twisted around her head, the net holding them in place torn in parts and barely covered by a dirty linen veil. She looked thin and drawn, her skin hanging loose on bones, where once had been plump with pink flesh and cream curves.

She continued to stare at him, rocking her child. He tried again. 'I see the Manor's…'

'You're not welcome here,' she snapped. 'You know Hugh and Robert only intend to use you to gain back the King's favour, and therefore Langton?'

Francis shrugged that off. It didn't surprise him, since he knew his stepbrothers would never have such a change of heart unless it was to benefit them, but to hear it, spoken with such casual contempt, was a shock.

'I will have my fief back from those brigands,' he said haughtily. 'Take care I don't decide to cast you out along with them when I do.'

She laughed suddenly, a bitter, sharp sound filled with hatred. 'I shall go myself, given half a chance,' she said. 'I'd rather take my chances on the road to London than let that fat uncouth pig swive me again! I wouldn't worry too much, Francis. Those oafs don't have the imagination to make life difficult for you. Use your head, boy! You're cleverer than all three of them put together.' She stopped and fell suddenly silent again, hearing Hugh's footsteps in the hall.

Francis fastened the new cloak just as his stepbrother came in. 'I thought I'd go to the village, see how the harvest fares,' he said nonchalantly. 'Arrangements for the feast will have to be made.'

Hugh blinked. 'Er….yes. Good idea, Francis.' He belched. 'You see to it then. One less thing for me to do.'

Francis smiled a small, secret smile. So Rosamund was right. He did not have the sheer physical bulk and strength, but he could outwit them.

He bowed low, and turned on his heel. 'I'll be back before supper,' he said to the air, and left for Langton with a spring in his step.


End file.
